Palman sat in the room assigned to him in Fort Kaelgrim, a deep frown etched on his face.

The room itself was far better than anything he had lived in before. The bed was wide and soft, the kind that swallowed his body when he lay down. The furniture was polished wood, free of cracks and splinters. There was even a small table set near the window, and a thick rug under his feet that kept the stone floor from biting into the cold.

Through the window, he could even see outside.

Thalric had made sure he was treated well. Almost too well.

A pretty maid came three times a day with warm food and polite smiles. Fresh clothes were delivered when he asked.

And yet, Palman was trapped.

He couldn’t step outside the room without permission. A soldier stood right outside his door at all times—a broad man with thick arms and a dull, watchful stare. Palman had tried once to leave, only to be stopped with a single firm shake of the head.

Orders, the man had said.

Palman clenched his jaw.

Everyone in the fort knew what was coming. There was no hiding it anymore. A siege was on its way, led by Lord Arzan himself. Even now, when Palman leaned closer to the window, he could see kraels circling above the fort, their dark shapes cutting across the cloudy sky. The beasts shrieked from time to time, restless and uneasy.

War was close.

His orders had been clear.

Feed Thalric the information Lord Arzan wanted him to hear. Stay inside the fort. Act like a loyal informant. And the moment the siege reached the gates—

Run.

Run as far as possible. Do not stay inside Fort Kaelgrim when the fighting begins.

But that was the problem.

No matter how much Palman tried, he couldn’t leave.

The guard outside his room had made it clear—once the siege began, no one under watch was allowed to move freely. Jumping from the window wasn’t an option either. He was on the fourth floor, and the outer walls were smooth stone, with no ledges or footing.

Palman ran a hand through his hair and grabbed his head in frustration.

Everything was moving forward exactly as planned… except him.

And if he stayed here when Lord Arzan made his move, Palman knew one thing for certain. This room—no matter how comfortable—would become a grave.

With every passing second, Palman could feel the siege drawing closer.

This wasn’t going to be a slow, starving kind of siege. He knew that much. Lord Arzan didn’t fight that way. When the attack started, it would be fast and brutal, and if Palman was still sitting on this bed when that happened, he wouldn’t survive it.

He shut his eyes for a moment.

He didn’t want to imagine his wife alone, dressed in black, listening to people talk about how he had died like a rat trapped in a room.

No. He wasn’t going to die here.

Palman pushed himself up from the bed and walked toward the door. His steps were slow, careful, but his heart was hammering in his chest. He was a soldier. He had been in fights. As a Watcher, he had even trained extensively for close combat, even in narrow spaces.

But fighting a man twice his size? That was new. Still… There was a first time for everything.

Palman glanced at the door, then around the room. His eyes finally landed on the attached bathing room. He stepped inside and grabbed the wooden bucket resting near the walls. It was heavy enough. Solid. Not a weapon, but it could be used as one.

Thalric hadn’t allowed him to keep even a dagger, but Palman knew something most nobles forgot.

Human bodies were fragile. Even large ones. He just needed an opening.

With the bucket in hand, Palman returned to the door and knocked—hard. Once. Twice.

A few seconds passed before a rough voice came from the other side.

“What?” the man barked. “Why are you knocking?”

Palman steadied his breathing. “I need a shower,” he said. “There’s no water in my room.”

There was a pause. Then a snort. “What do you need a shower for?” the guard snapped. “We’re under a fucking siege. You some woman, worried about being all clean?”

Palman clenched his jaw, then forced irritation into his voice.

“I like to stay clean daily, you brute,” he shot back. “That’s what the church teaches. Just because you’re a dirty, grimy man doesn’t mean others have to live like pigs.” He lifted the bucket slightly. “Open the door. Take this. Get me water.”

Silence followed. Then the voice returned, louder and angry. “I’m not grimy, you fucking traitor.”

Palman’s grip on the bucket tightened.

Good.

Anger was exactly what he needed. The next second, the door swung open.

Palman didn’t hesitate.

The moment the gap appeared, he rushed forward and hurled the bucket straight at the soldier’s face. The man didn’t even have time to react. The bucket slammed into his jaw with a dull crack, snapping his head back and forcing him to stagger.

He didn’t fall, but his hand was already moving toward his sword.

Palman didn’t give him the chance.

He closed the distance in a heartbeat and swung his leg forward, kicking straight between the burly man’s legs. The impact landed clean. The soldier let out a sharp, broken cry as the pain tore through him, his body folding almost on instinct. The greatest pain known to a man.

That was enough.

Palman yanked the sword from the man’s belt and drove it into his right leg. The blade sank in deep. The soldier roared, reaching out blindly, but Palman punched him square in the face and jumped back.

The man collapsed against the wall, gasping and clutching his wound.

Palman looked at him one last time. “Don’t chase me,” he said flatly and took out the blade.

Then he turned and ran.

As fast as his legs could carry him—because his life really did depend on it.

He doubted the wounded soldier would follow, not with a sword stuck in his leg and a siege unfolding on the walls, but doubt wasn’t something he could afford. Even one man raising the alarm would be enough to doom him.

So Palman increased his speed.

He moved through corridors he had quietly memorised during his stay in Fort Kaelgrim, taking sharp turns without slowing. He rounded a corner and barreled toward a stairwell, then froze.

Two soldiers were walking past.

For a heartbeat, all three of them stared at one another. One of the soldiers opened his mouth.

Palman spoke first.

“What the fuck are you two doing standing around here?” he snapped.

The man blinked. “What?”

Palman didn’t hesitate. “Get on the fucking walls,” he barked. “King Thalric has ordered every soldier there. I’ve been sent around to check if anyone is hiding.”

The two men stiffened.

“If you don’t move right now,” Palman continued coldly, “I’ll report you. And when this is over, you’ll be seeing the guillotine. The siege has already started.”

As if the world itself agreed, a krael’s shrill scream echoed through the fort in the very next second.

Both soldiers flinched.

They looked at each other, fear flashing across their faces, then nodded and hurried off toward the walls without another word.

Only when their footsteps faded did Palman finally let out a long breath.

One of the first things the Watchers taught was simple—when cornered, borrow authority. Most common soldiers had no clear idea who truly held power in a crowded fort. Fear filled the gaps, and fake orders carried weight.

Palman didn’t waste another second.

He hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The stairwell led into another corridor, and from there he moved straight toward the kitchen area.

It was almost empty.

The cooks and helpers had been dragged to the walls like everyone else. Pots sat abandoned. Fires burned low. The place felt strangely still.

Palman went straight to one of the windows and forced it open.

He was on the first floor.

Below, a large tree stood close to the wall. If he timed the jump right, he could land on one of its thick branches. From there, he could move through the trees, branch to branch, until he crossed beyond the fort’s outer edge.

He would have preferred a back door, but those would be swarming with soldiers right now. Forts locked down completely during a siege. Getting out was often harder than getting in.

Palman placed one foot on the windowsill, ready to jump—

Then he heard footsteps.

Palman spun around the moment he heard them. Two soldiers stood in the doorway, frozen as they stared at him.

For a split second, Palman opened his mouth, ready to use the same lie as before, but one of the men spoke first.

“What the hell are you doing here?” the soldier asked, frowning. “You’re Palman, right? The Duke’s traitor.”

Palman felt panic surge through his chest.

“No,” he said quickly. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I brought you to Duke Raktor myself. Did you forget?” He glanced at the open window. “Are you trying to run away?”

As he spoke, the man drew his sword. His partner stepped forward and took out a spear from his back.

Palman immediately knew then that words wouldn’t save him here.

“I don’t want to kill you two,” he said, steadying his breath.

The soldier snorted. “We won’t be the ones dying.”

The swordsman rushed him.

Palman dodged to the side just as the blade slashed past his chest. At the same time, the spearman lunged, using the reach of his weapon.

Palman grabbed a heavy pan from the counter and raised it just in time. The spear struck metal instead of flesh.

Without hesitation, Palman hurled the pan.

It slammed into the spearman’s jaw with a dull crack. The man staggered back, nearly dropping his weapon.

But there was no time to finish him. The swordsman closed in and he put his own sword in front just in time.

Steel met steel as their blades clashed. The man ground his teeth, pushing forward, but Palman didn’t try to overpower him. Instead, he slid his blade aside, twisting out of the clash, and struck at the man’s torso.

The soldier barely blocked in time.

Palman still managed to carve a shallow cut across his side before kicking him hard in the chest.

The man crashed into a table, knocking it over.

Palman lunged forward to press the advantage, but the soldier raised his sword defensively, jamming it between them and shoving Palman back.

Palman gritted his teeth as he saw the spearman pushing himself back to his feet. He had no potions or backup right when he needed it. He cursed his luck, but even so, he knew he wasn’t going to lose.

When both soldiers charged at him again, Palman didn’t meet them head-on. He backed away quickly, grabbing whatever he could from the kitchen counters. Plates, bowls, knives—anything with weight.

He hurled them without stopping.

The soldiers had no shields.

A kitchen knife sank into the swordsman’s stomach, drawing a sharp cry from him. At the same time, plates shattered against the spearman’s face, fragments cutting into his cheek and brow. He stumbled, swearing as blood ran down his face.

The swordsman, furious and in pain, roared, “I’m going to cut your neck!”

He charged straight through the storm of flying utensils.

Palman had no choice now.

He stepped forward.

Their swords crashed together, steel ringing through the kitchen. The man pushed with brute strength, trying to overpower him, but Palman stayed calm. He blocked every strike, giving ground inch by inch, reading the man’s stance.

Then he saw it.

As the swordsman aimed low, Palman stepped aside and kicked him hard in the knee.

The man collapsed with a scream. He tried to raise his sword to defend himself, but Palman was faster.

He drove his blade straight into the man’s neck. The sword slid in deep.

The man’s weapon fell from his hand as blood poured down his chest. Palman twisted the blade once and pulled free, letting the body slump to the floor.

He turned immediately.

The spearman had finally recovered. He stared at his partner bleeding out on the stone floor, his face twisting into rage.

“You’re going to suffer for that,” the spearman said, tightening his grip on his weapon.

Palman narrowed his eyes and said quietly, “We’ll see about that.”

The spearman charged. Palman didn’t move.

He held his ground as the spear rushed toward him. At the last moment, he knocked it aside with his sword, then reached out with his free hand and grabbed the shaft. The spearman tried to pull it back, muscles straining, but Palman was faster.

He kicked the man hard in the chest.

The spearman stumbled back, losing his grip. Palman ripped the weapon free and hurled it across the kitchen, where it slammed into the far wall and clattered to the floor.

In the same breath, Palman rushed forward.

The soldier tried to roll away, panic clear on his face, but Palman stepped down on his stomach, pinning him in place. The man screamed, “No—!”

Palman drove his sword down.

He twisted the blade once, tearing the wound wider, then pulled it free and stabbed again—this time into the man’s neck. The scream cut off instantly.

It was over.

Palman stood there for a second, breathing hard. The kitchen was a mess of blood and broken tools, and his clothes were soaked red. He didn’t give it another thought.

He turned and ran for the window.

Kraels were shrieking outside, their cries sharp and frantic. He knew he had been delayed too long. Without slowing, Palman stepped onto the windowsill and jumped.

He landed on a tree branch below, barely keeping his balance before leaping to the next one.

Then it happened.

A booming sound tore through the air, the loudest thing Palman had ever heard.

His stomach dropped.

Flames burst out from the top of the fort, lighting the sky on fire. Palman froze only for a heartbeat before sprinting across the branches, fear clawing at his chest.

Another explosion followed. Then another. Heat washed over him in waves.

As he jumped to the third tree, a massive blast tore through the air behind him. The force hit him like a hammer, throwing him off balance.

He fell.

As his body dropped, Palman twisted his head back just in time to see it.

Fort Kaelgrim was coming apart.

Flames erupted from its walls, explosions ripping through stone and tower alike. Smoke filled the sky, and the screams of beasts and men blended into one terrible sound.

The fort was falling, and he hoped that he wouldn’t be buried under it.

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep